


Fantasy

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Series: Comfortember 2020 [5]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Caring James Wilson (House M.D.), Comfortember 2020, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daydreaming, Fantasizing, Gen, James Wilson Loves Greg House, James Wilson in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sick Character, Timeline What Timeline, literally just 1k words of James Wilson pining over Greg House
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27407248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: He shivers at the thought, and immediately feels guilty. His best friend is sick, vulnerable. Wilson shouldn't be laying here thinking about… imagining… being intimate with him. It's not even a thought that should cross his mind at all, much less at a moment like this one.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Series: Comfortember 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995943
Comments: 9
Kudos: 61
Collections: Comfortember 2020





	Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5 of comfortember, 'cuddling'
> 
> (Set after 'Sick', before 'Sweet' - Wilson's POV after House falls asleep)

Wilson watches House fall asleep, practically in his arms, still radiating heat and even starting to sweat a little from how close the two of them were. Wilson's response to this was to tug the blanket down a little, not enough to completely uncover him - no, he's too shy for that and he's too _respectful_ for that, especially since they're in such close proximity to each other now. And he knows maybe he should pull away, maybe he should just get out of bed altogether, but a big part of him doesn't want to. He can't help but stare at House's sleeping face, bathed in the warm, pale lights outside the window. Otherwise, it's dark and he can't really make out specific features - which would be a problem if Wilson didn't know every curve of House's jaw, every line across his forehead, the slant of his eyebrows, the set of his mouth. But Wilson does know these things and more; he knows every hair on his chin, can trace every patch of stubble. For someone who doesn't know what to look for, House might be lost in the darkness. For Wilson, however, he's never looked clearer than he does in that moment, lights off or not. It's…

… it's something else, really, being here with House like this. Every carefully-constructed guard around his emotions - his and House's, it seemed - came crumbling down, and the game of oblivion they played seemed to have paused. There was something exciting about that, about this, about the situation they were in. Something _exciting,_ _enticing, inviting_ , about his hand on House's shoulder, the way his body leans in closer when he finally starts drifting off, the way he seems instinctively drawn to Wilson's body like a magnet. Wilson wants to press them even closer, get rid of the sliver of distance that still rests between them, but once again, he can't.

Once again, he's too respectful for that. The adrenaline coursing through his veins only allows him one small, brief slip; his hand slips to rest in the curve above the jut of House's hip bone, and as he curls his fingers into the fabric of the blanket covering him, Wilson can't help but marvel over how his hand fits perfectly in that space. He's no longer merely touching House; he's _holding_ him. James Wilson is _holding_ Gregory House. In bed. While he's sleeping.

He's dreamed of this. Dreams lie. Dreams deceive. It feels even better in the real world than it ever could, even though when he's tucked away inside his mind, House is actually awake for this, and his arms are wrapped around Wilson so tightly he feels like he's being squeezed to death, and he can feel House's stubble graze his cheek as he presses a kiss to his lips-

He shivers at the thought, and immediately feels guilty. His best friend is sick, vulnerable. Wilson shouldn't be laying here thinking about… imagining… being _intimate_ with him. It's not even a thought that should cross his mind at all, much less at a moment like this one. It feels wrong, it feels like taking advantage, even though he's not really doing much of anything. The place where his hand rests suddenly feels a little too hot, obscene, dirty. He wants to pull back, but he's afraid that the loss of the contact might wake House at the same time, and in the state his best friend is in, he can't help but wonder if maybe this is a good opportunity to show him some much-needed physical affection. The kind of affection House doesn't accept when he's awake and sober (mostly) and not thinking like a six-year-old due to the fever he's running.

He's so in love with this man he can't stand it. Times like this only serve as a painful reminder that Gregory House is the one thing he can't escape. The one that will never get away.

Wilson wants him more than he's ever wanted anyone… and that's dangerous.

And it doesn't stop him from wanting to move closer. From wanting to bury his face into House's neck, wake him up to tell him that he loves him, over and over and over again, how many times it takes to get it through House's thick skull. Sometimes he wonders if House already knows. Sometimes he wonders if it's just a game to him, some elaborate scheme. Sometimes he wonders if Gregory House, who is smarter than anyone Wilson has ever met in his entire life, could really be that oblivious - and how he had been dealt such an awful hand if that is the case, for House to be able to pick apart everyone else like it's nothing, but Wilson is lost on him.

He breathes, slowly and quietly, and buries his face into the pillow instead. It doesn't help that it smells like House; the entire room smells like House. _Wilson_ thinks _he_ might smell like House right then, even. It's a scent that clings to him even long after he leaves the man. He can never fully figure out what it is, but it's intoxicating. It's better than any drug, and ten times more addicting. It makes Wilson feel like he's on top of the world, like he's invincible, like nothing can hurt him as long as that scent is wrapped around him like the protective bubble he wants it to be. It's everything House is and isn't; it's warm and strong and it tickles his nose, but it's also oh-so inviting. It draws him in, like a moth to a flame. It's such a high at first, and then… then it isn't, but it doesn't really matter, because he keeps coming back for those first few seconds.

It's everything House isn't because it makes him feel good. And happy. And comforted. And loved. It's so simple, so stupid, but it's everything to him. Right then, even, _House_ is everything Wilson knows he isn't, and everything maybe he shouldn't be, but everything that he wants. A part of him can't help but mourn the fact that House would never invite him into his bed like this, snuggle close and accept what, in another situation, might have been considered an intimate touch from a lover rather than a best friend, if he was in his right mind. Of course he wouldn't.

But Wilson loves him anyway. He wishes he didn't sometimes, but he does. Breathing in another lungful of the House-scented air around him, Wilson dares to peek up at House; the man is smiling, fast asleep, his body curled toward the oncologist. Wilson's body reacts instinctively without his permission, shuffling closer to accommodate him, and his head ends up halfway onto House's pillow, mere inches away from House's sleeping face. Once again he feels dirty, wrong, like he's taking advantage, like he shouldn't be this close, like he needs to move because House isn't going to like this when he wakes up. He's going to taunt him mercilessly, fervently, and Wilson isn't going to know how to react. _He's_ not running a fever.

But that smell is intoxicating, House's smile is too inviting and the warmth of his body continues to draw him in despite these thoughts, until his arm is wrapped around the other man's torso, still settled above his hip bone, and they're close enough that if Wilson tilts his forehead closer, they'd be touching, skin on skin. He doesn't do that, because he still knows better.

But as he closes his eyes to finally let himself drift off, he can't help but imagine a world in which he doesn't have to know better. In which this wouldn't be wrong. Or dirty. Or taking advantage.

In which he can cuddle as close to him as he wants, drink in that scent as much as possible. In which, for even just a little while, he doesn't have to worry about doing the wrong thing or saying the wrong thing, and he can look up into those big blue eyes and tell him all of his secrets, and he can tell him he loves him and _hear it back_ , and he can comfort him when he's sick like this with kisses on the forehead, the cheeks, the lips. A world in which he doesn't have to keep his distance. In which he doesn't have to _imagine_ , or dream, or think about what _could_ be.

In which Gregory House is _his_.

The world he fantasizes is softer. Kinder. Warmer. _Better._ But it's just that - a fantasy.


End file.
